History doesn’t know ebullience, and doesn’t care, but
aunties and uncles cram into my grandparents’ apartment.Â
Grandpa, who ate grass as a child, smiles his broad smile.Â
Grandma, whose father, husband and only child died
died during the war, raises the usual toast,Â
May there never again be war. Wasn’t warÂ
lifetimes ago? Who wants war? I’m four.Â
My cousin Lev, five. We are tickled, cuddled, fed,Â
banished to the tiny bedroom. We burst out, crawl
under the three joined tables, and make guests guessÂ
which child is touching their feet. We do not knowÂ
our family is an aberration, a lushness. WeÂ
know mayhem and cake. Bright yolk cream, with
its grownup edge of brandy. Soft cocoa sheets.Â
Chocolate glaze, like a shining wood floor. I pictureÂ
gnomes rollerblading on it. And again we are exiled,Â
to the room where the adults made the mistakeÂ
of putting the cake. We debate. Dessert includes otherÂ
miracles – madeleines, made by no one – ever – butÂ
Grandma, and her American-Style Lemonade, raysÂ
of lemon and orange sun in the crystal carafe.Â
Would anyone miss the glaze? We divide the cake,Â
and lick its chocolate mirror. The reflection gives thumbs-upÂ
to our heist. It tastes like going full circle on a swing.Â
We lick until the velvety top sheet is revealed.
We lick until the grownups find our crime.Â
Being found out sounds like laughter from thirtyÂ
throats. No one punishes us. We don’t know much,Â
except that we are adored. We want adoration more
than any dessert. Sweetness seeps into my deepestÂ
layers. Grace passes over me like a fast golden cloud –
